


Hemostasis

by imaginethisgalaxy



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Doctor!Reader, F/M, Graphic Descriptions of Injuries, in which i get nerdy about star wars and medicine, perhaps anyway?, total inability to calculate hyperspace travel time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 19:30:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12711453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginethisgalaxy/pseuds/imaginethisgalaxy
Summary: You are so focused on your task – and perhaps he is so focused on the idea of going unnoticed – that you almost don’t see him, set apart in the corner and staring at the grate in the floor as if willing it to open and swallow him up. You don’t have a name for him, not a real one, but you know him instantly by the Imperial body armor, by the muttering and not-very-subtle cutting of eyes to his corner of the passageway among the injured. It can be no one else in the galaxy. Fulcrum. (Requested by myeternalsin on Tumblr.)





	Hemostasis

**Author's Note:**

> I highly recommend the use of Interactive Fics in conjunction with my work for Google Chrome users. Unfortunately this extension isn't available on other browsers or on mobile. However, Firefox users might try an extension such as FoxReplace, where you can manually set replacements for "Y/N" and other words/phrases on particular websites.

A modified freighter is nowhere for the huddled masses – even if those huddled masses are the few remaining fragments of a squadron that all but doesn’t exist. The limited passageways of the _Ghost_ are lined with them, in various states of non-critical injury. They tend to their own wounds where they can, assist with the application of what bacta patches and bandages are available in places others can’t reach. Anyone with medical training and free hands – yourself included – is drifting along the limited path between them, checking in, exchanging bloodied scraps of cloth with clean ones, looking for whatever cannot be seen. There are concussions to monitor, simple fractures to set, and a dire need to boost morale by treating as much acute pain as possible as the ship hurtles through hyperspace in search of shelter from the Empire.

You are so focused on your task – and perhaps he is so focused on the idea of going unnoticed – that you almost don’t see him, set apart in the corner and staring at the grate in the floor as if willing it to open and swallow him up. You don’t have a name for him, not a real one, but you know him instantly by the Imperial body armor, by the muttering and not-very-subtle cutting of eyes to his corner of the passageway among the injured. It can be no one else in the galaxy. _Fulcrum._

Pressing a glue stat to an open laceration on the forehead of a pilot, you murmur care instructions to her as you smooth her bangs down for her without really looking, thoroughly distracted now that you know he’s here.  Picking your way through the crowded hall is a challenge, but you manage, aware of the number of eyes watching your retreating back as you make your way down the passageway. It’s an effort not to turn and scold them all, but they’ve had enough already.

You don’t wait for him to look up when you finally reach his corner, tossing a couple of spent bacta patches into a nearby receptacle. “Has anyone taken a look at you yet?”

It isn’t until his head lifts to look at you, only mildly startled, that you see the bruising on his face. The shiner he’s sporting is particularly vivid, and likely painful – at least the split lip isn’t too severe. “I’m fine,” he demurs, and you look at him with about as much doubt as you can muster.

“You’re hunched over in a corner with a black eye, a split lip and probably more than one broken rib if your posture is anything to go on. ‘Fine’ is probably not the word I would use.” He hesitates, and it’s enough. You gesture to the side port, nodding in his direction. “Come on, it’ll even get you away from your new fan club.”

“I don’t know that I would call them that.”  
  
“You can call them whatever you want as long as you start walking, Fulcrum.” You watch him consider you before he starts moving toward the blast door you’ve indicated, ducking only slightly into the smaller cargo area before you follow him inside. You press the panel to shut it, to give you both privacy, because of course there are people watching.

Tossing your kit onto a nearby table, you gesture to the makeshift exam bench that’s been set up in the room so he can sit. “You’re going to need to get rid of your armor, and I’ll need the top of the uniform off to inspect your ribs. We’re low enough on stimpaks that we’re trying not to use them, but I can probably make you a lot more comfortable once I get a good look. Did they use anything on you that I should know about? Titroxinate,” you suggest, “Mangoriza maybe?”

“Nothing chemical,” your patient supplies, reaching carefully to begin shedding body armor. “Out of curiosity, do you just keep a bulleted list of the things Imperial Intelligence uses on people around here?”

“Well, it’s sort of my whole job to know that kind of thing.” You move to help him divest himself of the chestplate and wait for him to shed of the top of his uniform, taking it from him and setting it aside before digging through your limited supplies for an injectible health stim. “If I tried to give you a painkiller that interacted poorly with Mangoriza and they’d given you any, you’d be pretty cross with me.” By way of punctuating your point, you press the injector to his thigh and fire it. He barely seems to register it, but that’s likely for the best under the circumstances. “Seems like a waste of a medical education not to keep track.”  
  
“I could also be dead,” he offers, but not totally without humor.

You gave him a wry smile. “Well, that would be enough to make me cross.”

There’s a bit of a nod, by way of conceding the point. “You’re a doctor?”

“I am – well, I was. The Empire is in control of the governing bodies for that kind of thing, these days. For the most part, anyone accused of collusion with the rebels gets their license taken away.” You flash him something like a grin over your shoulder, rummaging in your kit for a jar of salve. “Now I’m just somebody who asks people to take their clothes off so it’s easier to poke at them.”

He lets out a huff you choose to assume was meant to be a laugh and your smile widens just a fraction before you turn back to your task, eventually producing a vacuum-sealed container of something that, once open, smells astringent and strongly herbal. “This should help with the more minor bruising, and take some of the pain out of it.” Stepping closer and leaning in a little, you apply it to the bruising around his eye as gently as you can with the pad of your finger. It’s a little too intimate in such close quarters, you’re sure, but it’s the best way to be certain it’s used properly. “It’s made with vincha, so it’ll sting for a couple of minutes and then it’ll be sort of numb. Better than the alternative.”

There is a noncommittal hum from somewhere in his chest as you dab delicately at the bruising on his face, trying to avoid using too much pressure on the worst of it. “I’m sorry you lost your license,” he murmurs, and it occurs to you that he’s trying to keep his face as still as possible. The idea of a polite spy for some reason threatens to break you out in a grin, but you manage not to give it away.

“Why?” You pull back from his face and wipe your fingers on the nearest clean cloth, screwing the cap back onto the salve. “You’re not the one who signed the order for it, are you?”

“No,” he replies, a little more seriously than you expect. “That wouldn’t have been my department. If anything, it would have –”

“I know all of this already, you know.” Your patient balks, looks something close to sheepish, but he doesn’t argue. “I trust our intel, thanks in part to you. … also, I still have the order somewhere, and it’s signed. Not by you. Don’t worry about it.”

“You are a remarkably trusting lot in general,” he says quietly.

“We’re really not. You’ve just been lucky.” The second sentence is a sigh, because you don’t really know how to prepare him for what’s coming. It occurs to you that he likely doesn’t need it, but it’s not in your nature not to try. “Not for nothing, but as good as most people are, there are plenty of people on this ship – and plenty where we’re going – who aren’t going to trust you for a while. Some of them probably won’t _ever_ trust you. Fulcrum has done a lot for the larger rebellion, and believe me, people are grateful. But Fulcrum has never had a face before, and having that face suddenly turn out to be an Imperial officer is … well, it’s going to be hard to swallow.”

“But not for you.”  
  
You notice him scanning you with his eyes, sizing you up, and suddenly feel more scrutinized than you have in years. Imperial Intelligence, you think with not a small amount of respect, was probably the perfect fit for him if he makes everyone feel this way just by looking. “What I do isn’t based in trust,” you counter, “it’s based in ethics. If I don’t treat people who need it, no matter who they are, I’m no better than the people we’re fighting. Imperial medics would have left a Rebel for dead, or worse. You know that. Besides, it’s not as if you’re exactly the same as the rest of them. You chose to leave, chose to make a difference. That choice is open to everyone else the same as it is to you. It’s not without consequences, but it is.” Swallowing hard, you move to grab a penlight from your kit. “I do need to check you for a concussion just to be on the safe side, but it’s not stable enough in here for a bioscanner so we’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way. Sit up as straight as you can, please.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about this sort of thing,” he says, and you’re sure it’s at least partly to hide the wince straightening up on the exam bench produces.

“What I know is that nobody leaves the only thing they’ve ever known,” you breathe, not sure why you’re being so quiet with nobody else in the room, “unless the only thing they’ve ever known is a firaxa’s mouth. Soldier or not, Fulcrum or not –”

“Kallus,” he says, pulling back from you enough that he can look at your face instead of straight ahead and into the blinding pinpoint of light in your hand.

The quiet spell over the both of you effectively broken, your brows knit together briefly, looking back at him with your now-empty hand still lifted to its same position as if his jaw was still resting there. Your fingertips itch where his facial hair brushed them in passing, and you flex them gently to get rid of the sensation. “I’m sorry?”

“My name,” he tries again, but a little quieter. “It’s not Fulcrum. It’s Alexsander Kallus.”

You hear more than feel the clicking of the penlight’s power button as you turn it off, but it seems distant. “[Y/N],” you offer in return, more quietly than you intend. You know he’s heard you, you can see him studying your face as if to evaluate whether or not it suits you. Taking a breath, you find yourself trapped in his thrall for a moment, really looking the former Imperial agent in the eyes for the first time – honeyed golden-brown, like good Akivan liquor, you realize – and you almost feel compelled to shake your head to break out of the trance you’ve fallen into. "You’re supposed to be looking straight ahead, not at me, Alexsandr Kallus.”

“Right,” Kallus half-laughs, the grin he gives you only a little lopsided. You’re more distracted by it than you’d like.

“Well,” you begin, replacing your penlight, “you don’t follow instructions that well but you know your own name, your speech sounds normal and your pupils are doing what they’re meant to, so I don’t think you have much to worry about for now.” You motion for him to move his arm so that you can examine his ribs. “Of course, you’re still going to want to see someone who can look you over with a bioscanner when we get to Yavin 4.”

“You’ll be passing me off, then.”

“Not exactly true. I’m just giving you sound medical advice,” you laugh, very carefully touching your fingertips to the black and blue expanse of Kallus’ side. He winces when you apply pressure, but he doesn’t complain. You reach for a stethoscope and hook it around your neck, pressing a palm to his battered side as gingerly as possible. “You may get me again, you may not. I’m not the only doctor we have, and it all just depends. For all we know, you may not see me again for months.”

“That would be a shame,” Kallus breathes, and you glance up at him a little too quickly, eyebrows raised. “I’d hate to end up with the only doctor who doesn’t know what painkillers don’t mix with torture drugs,” he hastens to add, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding with a huff of a laugh.

“Everyone is perfectly capable. Their bedside manner is probably better too,” you joke, lifting the chestpiece of the stethoscope and pressing its diaphragm carefully to his skin. “Three deep breaths, deep as you can without hurting yourself too badly.”

“I somehow doubt that,” he manages as you place the eartips into your ears, but then he is obeying and you are too busy listening to the not-quite-right whooshing of air into his lungs to argue the point. The space of three breaths is just enough for you to collect yourself as you mull over the stilted noise his breathing makes under the skin, and part of you is grateful. Pulling the stethoscope away from the both of you and setting it aside, you clear your throat, turning to dig through one of the durasteel-sided cabinets to produce a bacta bulb before sliding it shut and moving back to the countertop to prepare it and a cleaning swab.

“You do have a bit of a collapsed lung in there,” you finally tell him, “but it’s not so bad that I don’t think it’ll take care of itself. If nothing else, once you get to the medbay on base, they’ll be able to fix you right up. Try not to do anything too strenuous until then and I’m sure you’ll be fine.” You hear him make a noise in the affirmative, but keep your back to him, instead watching him carefully in the dim reflection of the durasteel panels lining the wall. You note how utterly exhausted he looks now that no one is openly watching him. Not just physically – you are all drained in that regard, and how you will all manage to pull yourselves together remains to be seen – but there is a weight that seems precariously balanced above him, the broad slant of his bare shoulders enough to tell you that he’s not doing as well as he’d have anyone believe. He’s given up his whole life to try to make everyone else’s a bit better, and that’s no light task. You wonder what he’s risking, exactly – what the Empire will tell his family, if he _has_ a family, or if they’ll tell his relatives anything at all.

Lowering your eyes and swallowing the lump you hadn’t noticed move into your throat, you turn to swab the area clean before affixing the bacta bulb to his side, hands gentle against the mottled purple galaxy blooming along where his ribcage lives. You murmur something apologetic about the cold before peeling the backing off the bacta bulb. “We don’t have bact-ade, so this will have to do until we get there. It won’t speed things up by much, but it’ll start to feel better and it’ll get things moving.” To his credit, he doesn’t flinch, although you can see the shallow breath he takes hitch when you press down to ensure that it’s secure.

“I don’t suppose breathing will hurt less,” Kallus muses, and you smile.

“A little. The bruising is part of it, the bacta really will help. I’ll brace it too; that’ll help you breathe a little deeper, which is a good thing. You’ll want to try to get in a few deep breaths every hour.” There is a pause as you calibrate the bulb, and you consider not saying what you’d like to, but think better of it. “You know,” you begin slowly, very deliberately not looking him in the eye as you monitor the device to be certain it’s working, “you can stay if you want to. In here, I mean.” He quirks a brow when you glance up for his reaction but says nothing, so you take in a deep breath, do your best to ignore the heat creeping into your face and start again. “I don’t think I’ll need to bring anyone back here for quite a while, and you could probably use a minute of quiet after … well, if you want it, it’s here. There’s a bin of scrubs around here somewhere too, if you want to change.”

You can feel the former Imperial’s eyes on you, like he’s evaluating your sincerity, and it’s an effort not to squirm. Eventually you have to give in to the impulse and turn to find a brace for his ribs, only to feel his hands close around your wrist firmly enough to stop you from crossing the gap between where he’s sitting and the supply crates shoved hastily in the corner. You feel yourself swallow hard before you turn to look at him, trying to keep your breath even. “You don’t need to pity me,” Kallus says, and your brows knit at the very idea, head tilted as if you’re struggling with the concept.

“I _don’t_ pity you,” you fire back, twisting your wrist gently in his grip to coax him to let go of you. He withdraws his hand immediately, but nothing in the rest of his posture suggests he buys it. “I don’t think either one of us is better off than the other. Frankly, we’re all in the same sarlacc pit right about now, so there’s no point in pitying anyone. None of us is here to have a good time or feel superior to anyone, we’re here to fight, or in my case to keep other people fit enough to do it.” Turning back to your task, you lift the lid off the crate and set about finding a brace that will fit his torso. You can hear him gingerly sliding off the exam bench, but choose to ignore it.

“I didn’t mean it as a dig at you, you know.”

“I know.” You manage to unearth a brace in what you’re sure is the correct size, tearing the sterile packaging off of it and unrolling it as you turn back to where you assume he is without looking up. “That doesn’t make you any less –”

Kallus is much closer than you expect, and it makes you stop abruptly, blinking up at him and trying not to look _too_ surprised. You’ve likely failed, as he’s less than an arm’s length from you, and you realize suddenly that if he wanted to, he could have you caged between the corner and himself, with nowhere to go. Experimentally, you shift under his gaze, and he makes no move to compensate for your change in position. “Wrong,” he says suddenly, and you do almost start that time. “I think the word you were looking for was ‘wrong.’ You’d have a point.”

“Yes,” you sigh, not sure if you’re relieved or embarrassed but that heat is creeping into your face again and you can’t do much about it anymore. “Compassion and pity aren’t the same thing; one means I want you to be well and the other comes with a superiority complex none of us can afford these days.”

“My apologies,” he finally concedes, and you wave him off.

“It’s not the worst thing a patient has ever said about me. There’s nothing to apologize for. You’re just going to have to learn to trust me a little, eventually.”

“You certainly are an improvement over a medical droid,” Kallus half-whispers, and you feel yourself slipping into a grin before you can stop yourself, lowering your eyes to unfasten the brace.

“Medical droids are useful, but who do you think programs them?” Motioning for him to raise his arms, you move around to secure the stiff fabric around his torso, careful not to press to hard against anything that might hurt. “We use them, but there’s usually a sentient doctor around except in a pinch. Droid programming can’t think creatively; if it can’t come up with a diagnosis based on what it already knows it’s going to make things much worse very quickly.”

Kallus hums something in acknowledgment, shifting slightly as you move around to his back, securing the fasteners and checking the tightness. “You were serious before,” he finally asks, “about me hiding out in here until Yavin 4?”

“I wouldn’t call it hiding out, and I wish you would if just to get a little rest, but I can’t exactly stop you if you decide not to take my advice. I’m a doctor, not a drill sergeant.”

“Not planning to tie me down, then?”

“Not unless you want me to,” you say, before you can stop yourself. You’re suddenly very happy to be behind him, because you can feel everything from your face to your chest flushing and you would like very much to be just _slightly_ closer to the nearest black hole, so that you might throw yourself into it.

But he’s laughing, as much as a person can laugh with a fractured ribcage, and you’re so startled that your hands actually stop moving along the closures of his brace for a moment. “What was that you said before, [Y/N], about bedside manners?”

“Laughing at the person responsible for your well-being seems like a bad move,” you say, although you’re laughing in spite of yourself anyway. The way he says your name makes you a little too happy. “All I have to do is hit you in the side at the right angle and you’ll be a heap on the floor, you know.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he challenges, looking over his shoulder at you with enough amusement in his eyes that it makes something in your stomach do a somersault.

“My job is to keep you from dying, Kallus,” you clarify, moving away from him to find a shirt in his size among the spare sets of scrubs ferreted in with the other supplies. “There’s nothing in there about you having to enjoy the experience.”

“You definitely won’t be tying me down, then.” Your mouth actually falls open, and he’s laughing again, turning to catch the scrub top you throw at him with an almost infuriating ease. “I will make you a deal, however.”

You cross your arms over your chest, considering him as he carefully maneuvers himself into the shirt. “I can’t imagine what either of us has to bargain with,” you finally admit, “or over what.”

“I’ll stay put like a good patient,” he starts, pausing to pop his head through the collar of the top and ignoring the hair falling into his eyes, “and I won’t tell anyone you’ve threatened me with bondage, but only if you stay too. The company seems better than staring at the wall. Deal?”

There is an incredulous moment where you can’t decide if he’s serious, but the way he’s looking at you – expectant and almost challenging – tells you he is, and it’s enough. Crossing the short distance between the two of you, you reach up to brush the hair back out of his face, taking one deep breath before you answer. “Deal, I suppose.” Backing up to the countertop, you hoist yourself onto it, settling comfortably with your legs hanging over the edge. You watch him watch you get comfortable before he takes up residence beside you, leaning back against the hard surface you’ve claimed rather than joining you on top of it. “I am going to have to do my job at some point, you know.”

“I’m not going to stop you from tying anyone else down,” Kallus teases, and you elbow him in the shoulder with just enough force to jostle him. “You could also talk me through a thing or two, and I could make myself useful.”

“You’ve already been very helpful to all of us,” you say, and you find that you really do mean it. “Besides, what I have left amounts to ‘apply bacta or glue stat, instruct not to pick at it, rinse and repeat.’ Tedious more than difficult. If you want to stick things to people, though, be my guest.” He murmurs something agreeable, and strangely companionable silence falls over the both of you for a while. He is the first to break it.

“Where are you from?” Kallus asks finally, looking up at you on your durasteel perch.

“Chandrila,” you answer readily, tipping your head to look down at him with a small smile. “You sound like you’re from Coruscant.”

“Is it really that obvious?”

You stifle a laugh. “Only to people who aren’t from Coruscant.”

The hours that follow are a game of Twenty Questions that somehow becomes Two Hundred Questions, but neither of you seems to mind. By the time the _Ghost_ reaches Yavin 4 and you begin helping to unload and direct the walking wounded, he has ruined six glue stats but is an extra pair of hands you didn’t know you needed all the same, and you are grateful. People are scowling less – the lack of Imperial rank plate likely helps – and as you pass among people alongside him you realize that he’s already acclimating. You have just enough time to wonder at how much better he looks in scrubs than an Imperial uniform before you lose one another in the chaos; he has to be debriefed, you realize, and you have plenty to contend with in the base’s busy medical center that demands your immediate attention.

It isn’t until the next day, when you pull back the curtain on a patient who had specifically asked for you while complaining of chest pain with shortness of breath to find him sitting patiently on the gurney and laugh so hard you have to close the curtain again, that it occurs to you that you might – just perhaps – be a little smitten.


End file.
